


The Gloves Are Off

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brucenat - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda?, Minor Violence, hulkwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:37:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3923158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt by tacsuit:</p>
<p>"the fic where black widow’s kicked the shit out of someone who probably deserves it, and she’s got her gun on him execution style–</p>
<p>and she’s interrupted by a voice offering an out, a perspective, a new piece of data,<br/>that hands-out wary tone,</p>
<p>“Hey, … – the sun’s getting real low.”"</p>
<p>Or </p>
<p>The one where Natasha loses control</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gloves Are Off

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, [tacsuit](http://tacsuit.tumblr.com/) on tumblr had this awesome prompt in the tag and I had to do it. I had to write it. Warnings for mentions of child abuse but nothing descriptive, and I hope Natasha isn't OOC but I apologize if she is slightly.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta, [Grace](http://bendaroo.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Title taken from the Vampire Weekend song, Step.

Blood trickles into her left eye, a salty sting that matches the one in her eyebrow just a few inches above. The Alaskan air is freezing and her breath puffs out in front of her with each wincing heave of her chest, but the anger boiling underneath her skin is red-hot and pulsing. Her vision is clear, but her mind is not, her ability to rationalize impaired by the fury coursing through her.

  
She presses the barrel of the gun harder against the back of the HYDRA agent’s head.

  
The dust from the vicious fight from moments ago settles slowly, revealing red liquid speckled against the floor. There’s a small puddle of blood under the kneeling man, and Natasha isn’t sure how much of it is his and how much of it is hers. Ripples form on the surface of the puddle as the man shakes, the fear rolling off of him so strong that Natasha could smell it.

  
_Good_ , she thinks, lips curled back in a snarl. His death will be a small reparation for all the innocent children he made suffer. Images of The Red Room flash in her mind, but instead of it being her own memory, she is detached, watching. She sees trafficked children with no way out, fear and anguish morphing their features into something almost indescribable. She sees Cooper and Lila, small and vulnerable and so, so _afraid_. Something inside of her almost snaps.

  
Natasha is absorbed in the moment, ready to splatter the agent’s brains across the concrete floor, but she is not foolish. She hears the scuffle of Bruce’s heavy, tired footsteps before he even enters the room, but she does not retract the gun. The rage still consumes her and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to put a bullet through the man’s head.

  
“Hey, Widow, the sun’s getting real low.”

  
His voice is worn, wary, and she can almost imagine his slightly hunched shoulders and crossed arms. There is something else in his tone, though. A hint of compassion, it sounds like. He understands.

  
_Of course he does._

  
Natasha supposes she’d laugh at the irony of the situation had she been more composed, but then it wouldn’t be as ironic, would it?

  
The anger recedes, slowly, until it is nothing but a mere buzz across her aching muscles. She pulls the gun from the man’s head, disgust washing through her at the sound of his broken sob of relief. His broken legs and arm prevent him from moving far, so she turns, knowing Steve or Tony would come and collect him instead.

  
Bruce looks at her with soft eyes, and she wants nothing more than to lay down with her head in his lap and a fresh cup of tea. It’s a pipe dream at best, so Natasha settles for leaning into his warm frame as he leads her out of the freezing warehouse instead. His arm is a comforting weight on her shoulders, grounding her from the memories that try and fight their way to the front of her mind.

  
“Good to know the lullaby works both ways,” she murmurs after a few moments, a tired smile playing at the corners of her lips as Bruce lets out a small laugh.

  
When they get back to the Quinjet, he drapes a shock blanket over her body and they sit together in silence while the others clean up the mess, earpieces turned low to spare them from the testosterone-ridden banter that is taking place outside.

  
Natasha rests her head on his shoulder, mind racing to piece together why she lost control. There had been children involved in missions before, some in even worse situations than this, and yet -

  
“Don’t think too hard about it.” Bruce’s voice cuts though her train of thought. “You’ll talk yourself in circles. Get a decent meal in you, maybe some sleep, and worry about it then. You’ve done enough for now.”

  
He says it gently and with experience, his arm moving to rest along her waist for support. She takes his advice because she knows he knows what he’s talking about, and leaves the calculating and frustration for when she isn’t so cold and tired. Slipping up and losing control is never good, but for now, it can wait.

  
“Thank you.”

  
There are still words left unsaid, hanging in the silent air between them, but Natasha closes her eyes and figures there always will be.


End file.
